Ain't That a Kick in the Head
by Ascended Sleeper
Summary: A personalized story of the Courier's journey through the Mojave Wasteland and possibly beyond.
1. Chapter 1

I didn't remember exactly what happened. I remember being tied up, the rope cutting into my wrists through the leather gloves I had on. I remember a checkered coat, the gleam of a pistol in the moonlight, and the words "Truth is… the game was rigged from the start."

I didn't see the flash, or hear the bang of the gun.

Being dead wasn't what I thought it would be. There were great swaths of darkness, with a few images coming up in between. There was dirt, some kind of cowboy flickering on a screen, and then an elderly man with medical supplies doing something to my head, my vision jerked back and forth several times, and again it slipped to darkness. I felt no pain. At least not any pain that I remember. Just… darkness.

Eventually, the images came up more and more often. They were clearer, and I could actually tell there was noise around me.

If this is death… I am sorely disappointed.

My eyes open, and a wooden ceiling comes into focus. A rotary fan turns lazily out of the corner of my eye.

"Oh hey now, you're awake." A friendly voice comes from beside the bed I become aware I'm lying in. I try to sit up, unsure why I'm alive, and the world turns hazy again.

"Easy now…" The voice comforts me, and I can feel a pair of hands steady me. My vision clears after a moment. It's an old man, balding and white haired, but kindly enough. He says something more, but I'm trying to see clearly and his mustache keeps coming into and out of focus.

I realize he is waiting for me to respond. "Buh?" I manage to get out. My throat is incredibly parched.

The man looks saddened, but tries again. "What's your name son?" he asks.

I try to remember my name. It's fuzzy, and I can't focus.

"It feels like my head's full of cotton." I think I say.

The man sighs in relief. "Well, I had to replace your stuffing with something, after having survived a shot to the head like that."

I smile. "Heh."

"Do you remember your name?" he prodded again.

The clouds part long enough for me to snatch my name before it is lost again. "I think my name is Buck… Uh…" My last name escapes me. I know I have one.

"That's fine enough for now, Buck." He says. "I'm Dr. Mitchell."

I wave a hand half heartedly in greeting, trying to ignore the fading afterimages of movement. "Hi."

"Now I had to go rooting around there in your head to get all the pieces of the bullet out. I take pride in my needlework, but why don't you have a look and tell me if I left anything out of place." He said, picking up a mirror that was leaning against his chair.

I hold the mirror, and at first I almost drop it. I wasn't holding on tightly enough. But I look myself over. It was almost like looking at the face of a dead man. My tan had paled from being in bed for a long time. My face was scraggly; I haven't had a shave in some time. I try to guess based off the hair growth, but the fogginess has yet to recede. My eyes, baby blue, were a little bloodshot, but seemed okay.

My hair was shaggy, loosely swept back and steel gray. It wasn't because of age, I'd always had gray hair like that. Well, last time I had looked in a reflection I wasn't missing a several inch across patch of hair right across my hairline. It had grown out some, but I could still see a nasty looking scar across my scalp, the brush of short hair doing little to conceal the angry red stitched up slash on my forehead.

I shouldn't complain. I mean, I'm alive. That's something more than I thought I had before the guy shot me. A sharp spike of pain shoots through my head just thinking about the man. I knew who he was. I think. It's… It's gone now. "Bastard." I whisper.

"What?" Dr. Mitchell asked, surprised.

"Oh no, not you." I calm him down as quickly as I can. "You didn't shoot me in the head." I look over the injury. "That's some pretty fine suture work there. I didn't think much people remembered old world techniques like that."

Dr. Mitchell blinked in surprise. I did too. "It seems you know something about medicine." He observed. "In fact, yes I learned some of those tricks. I grew up in vault twenty one."

"Oh. A vault dweller." I respond. "That must have been nice."

"It was good enough, but I've made my home here." He replied, a sad smile on his face.

"I'm grateful you did." I say quietly.

"Well, you've been in bed long enough, let's see if we can get you standing." He helps me wobble to my feet. My head pounds again, and I think I'm about to black out, but it fades again.

"Why don't you make your way over to that vigor tester over there. Take it slow now, this ain't a race." He says. Walking over to an old style vigor tester machine.

I grab the electric squeeze handle of the machine, half to get started and half to keep me from falling over. I squeeze as hard as I can, taking breaths as I try to even my heartbeat. Things are falling into place in my mind, and by the time it buzzes its completion, I feel much more confident.

"Well, you could have come out a whole lot worse." Dr. Mitchell observed my sub par physical scores. "But be glad that isn't a normal diagnostic tool."

He walks off into another room, muttering about being nutty or something. I give the machine a second try. Even when I squeeze as hard as I can, I still don't get even an average in vigor. Muscle atrophy from being bedridden? Nerve damage from the bullet?

I realize that while my body seems woefully sub-par so far as vintage electronic toys are concerned, my mind seems to be more or less intact. I seem to have a hard time remembering everything directly, but I seem to be able enough to use what I learned by repetition memory. Either that or the bullet to the brain made me smarter. I didn't want to start thinking about that.

I walk over to the Dr. "Look, Dr. Mitchell, do I have to go through all this. I can tell you what I am comfortable with."

Dr. Mitchell sighs. "Well, if you can impress me, I'll toss the normal mental exam out."

"Okay." I say, taking a deep breath before launching into it. "You have a chemistry lab in the back of the room I woke up in. I would estimate by the colored chemicals and the acrid odor you were mixing up a few extra stim packs in case I had any complications. I know you stitched my head up with a fine surgeons suture, and from the color of material you didn't have anything that would fall out on its own so I'll have to pull them once its healed enough." I point back into that room. "You had an AEP 7 laser pistol on a shelf near the vigor tester, and a broken submachine gun near the foot of the bed. The slide cylinder looked to be gummed up, since it was half out. Clearing the slide and resetting it would fix that. The laser pistol… well, it needs batteries."

Dr. Mitchell whistled. "Well, it seems you have a knack for all manner of intellectual pursuits, I'll tell you that." He flips through the pages on his medical clipboard. "Well, I guess all that's left then is the medical history page then." He holds it out to me, and I grab it as I sink down onto his couch. "I mean, it's not like I expect you to have a family history of getting shot in the head." He jokes.

I take the pen he handed me and quickly scratch my information down. I hand it back to him moments later, and he glances through it before setting it aside. "Well, you definitely have some skill, and you don't seem the sort to pick fights. Wonder what led to you getting shot in the first place."

"Yeah about that doc." I say, stretching my neck. "How did you find me anyways?"

Doctor Mitchell shrugged. "That robot, Victor. He saw what happened and dug you up soon as the men cleared out."

"Really?" I ask. "I'll have to thank him."

"Yes. Well, do you think you're ready to move on your own?" he asks.

"It's a bit sudden, doc. I just woke up." I stand up. "But you know, I feel pretty good. I should at least head outside, and figure out what to do next."

Dr. Mitchell stood as well, smiling. "Well, if you talk to Sunny, she may have some stuff to get you re-accustomed to the wasteland." He explains. "She should be in the saloon about now."

I nod gingerly. "Sure thing."

I walk with him to the front door.

"Here, I want you to have this." He says, handing me a bulky device. I flip it over in my hands as I fiddle with the buttons and knobs. "It's a pip-boy. Everyone in the vaults had one. I don't have much use for it, and it seems you could use it more than I could."

I slip the thing onto my arm, and slide my fingers into the attached glove. I close the brackets, and feel the interior padding adjust to my arm. _Click._ It biometrically seals to my arm, a safety feature that most people don't talk about. RobCo secrets. But where did he get this one? He's still got his attached to his arm.

"Are… you sure about this, doc?" I ask.

"Yeah." He replies. "I think it will see more use with you than it would have sitting in a trunk." He holds out a bundle of clothes and a small pack. "These were yours. Sorry about the clothes, but your other stuff was too tore up to keep."

I zip up the jumpsuit, finding it interesting that the vault jumpsuits were pre made with the pip-boy in mind. Its sleeve on the left side terminated at the elbow, where it would bunch up against the pip-boy. Made sense, there was no way I could get a sleeve over the bulky thing.

The pack holds a few stim packs, two bottles of water, a handgun, and a courier slip. I hold it up with my left arm, and am surprised when the third button flickers to life briefly before going silent again. I could faintly hear the sound of the screen idling. I read over the slip before pocketing it.

I hit a few buttons on the pip boy, turning the control knobs and running it through its paces. It has the Pip-Boy 3000 firmware, pretty solid. RobCo knew what it was doing. Of course, they probably didn't intend for the thing to be used in other methods, but it was possible to improvise using loops in the code… I shake my head. Well, that shouldn't be surprising, but I don't remember where I learned so much about this, but I do. I turn over to the notes section of the pip-boy and start logging my thoughts. Hopefully I can piece together whatever is missing from my shattered memory in time. This device, this tool will certainly help. I also note that it seems to have scanned the courier slip and has a copy of its form on its memory. Handy, that.

"There isn't much on this thing right now." I observe.

"I erased its memory after its last owner… no longer needed it." He replies. "Too much personal stuff on it."

I nod, noting my headache is fading rapidly. "Gotcha." I reply.

The handgun is weathered and worn, but it feels unfamiliar in my grip.

"This was mine?" I ask, bewildered.

"Was with the rest of your stuff, I s'pose someone could have left it after shooting you." Dr. Mitchell reasoned. "I guess if you can find some energy cells for the laser pistol or can fix up the gun, you can have those as well."

I walk back into the other room. I scoop up the laser pistol and turn it over in my hands. Something… feels right about it. I realize after the fact that I not only cleared and replaced the nearly depleted energy cells, but I practiced taking aim down its square barrel. "Yeah." I comment to myself, or perhaps no one in particular. "This feels about right."

The submachine gun was in poor shape, but I manage to remove the slide, clear out the gunk and dirt that was jamming up the springs, and reconnect everything. The clip had six bullets left in it. It didn't feel as familiar as the laser pistol, but it felt alright.

"Thank you, doc." I say one last time as the doctor holds the door open for me.

"You're welcome, Buck." He replies, waving me out. "Come on back soon, just not for business."

I smirk as I step out into the hot Mojave sun. Maybe the game was rigged from the start, but now it's a new game, and I'm the one holding the cards.


	2. Chapter 2

Bright light flared, and I heft my arm up to shield my eyes. It's going to be a while until I get used to the extra couple of pounds the pip-boy strapped to my wrist. The sun burns across the baked dirt and cracked asphalt around the town. So this is Goodsprings. I lower my arm after the dazzle in my eyes fades.

The town was old, run down. Worn shingles on rooftops, with planks of wood crudely hammered over holes. A few of the homes were destroyed, nothing but rubble and the rotted wooden ribs of the structure clawing at the Nevada desert sky. A few of the not quite livable homes had their doors boarded over. Even the ones lived in were coated in faded, chipping paint, dingy and beaten up mailboxes, dried and dead tufts of grass.

A wrecked, gutted and rusted truck sat tireless along the road. I take the few steps off doc Mitchell's porch. That's when I see the robot rolling by.

The thing was faded blue, with accordion-reinforced arms. It rolled on a single wheel, very likely gyroscopically balanced. It would have been impossible to stay upright otherwise. Its body was a single shape, bulky shoulders and no 'head' but a screen in its face, giving it the silhouette of a hulking soldier or old world sportsman. The thing had a face flickering on its screen as it passed by, some kind of cartoon cowboy.

I let it pass, watching as it rolled off to my left. I glance at my pip-boy. North. That way is north. I walk off after it, hoping to get some more information from the robot. It continued on, oblivious of me, so I have to jog to catch up. Bad idea, I'm winded far too quickly, and I end up having to lean against a bighorner pen. One of the smelly beasts snorts the air near me but quickly turns away.

"Hey, you're that guy doc Mitchell was patching up, aren't you?" I hear from nearby. It's one of the settlers. From the checkered shirt, overalls and rubber boots, I wouldn't be making too far of a guess to say he was about to work in the pen.

I push off his fence, taking a few steps. "Yeah. Just stretching my legs." I reply halfheartedly. "You know, getting a feel for living again."

The man gives a short laugh before clambering over the wooden fence. "Yeah. I didn't think you were going to make it, honest. That doc's a good man."

"Yeah, couldn't have done it better myself." I joke. "You know where that robot goes?" I ask, pointing up the hill where I had seen it roll off to.

The farmer looked up the hill. "Oh Victor? Over there's the Goodsprings cemetery." He explains. "That's where he dug you up. That robot, he rolls around the town once and a while."

"What for?" I ask, squinting in the sunlight. In the distance I can hear the not too far off rat-tat-tat of automatic fire popping.

"That." He says. "Sometimes some of those irradiated critters wander on up there. He helps out, puts 'em down. Trudy says he's suspicious but I've never seen him do anything out of sorts."

Oh. Well isn't that nice of him. Sounds like a security protocol, but why out here?

"Thanks. I'll go have a chat with him." I say, walking off. I think they guy waves. I'm not sure, I wasn't looking his way.

"Sure thing."

The hike up the hill wasn't as tortuous as I thought it would be, but the Nevada sun is hard. I unscrew the cap of one of my bottles of water and take a sip. My throat is still parched, but I somehow restrain myself from drinking it all at once. Drink gradually, or you'll make yourself sick, and the last thing you need is to get sick on the road where no one can help you.

I know this. But I can't remember how. I can figure I've done a lot of traveling on foot in my life. My legs aren't even burning from the short hike up the hill. I realize the remaining water in the bottle is reflecting sunlight into my eyes, and I blink away the spots. How long had I zoned out? I finish off the bottle and put the empty back in my bag. Who knows when I may need it again?

I find Victor in the middle of the cemetery. Several dead flys of extraordinarily large size lay all around. Bloatflies. Victor turns to me as I approach, the sound of gravel crunching under my boots alerting him to my presence.

As his screen comes into view, I catch a glimpse of a face that makes me take a step back. The cartoon cowboy face, for a split second, looked pissed. It's smiling now, but I could swear I saw it. Maybe it was just a distortion or lens glare from the sun. Yeah, and people always die when you shoot them in the head.

"Well howdy pard'ner!" The robot says cheerfully, his voice sounding almost real, not synthesized like I've heard the Protectron or Mr. Gutsy models sound like. "Might I say you're lookin' fit as a fiddle!"

I give the robot a smile. "Thanks Victor. You know, for digging me out and everything."

"Oh don't mention it!" he responds, his voice inflections sounding very much like a real person. I notice there is an H&H Tools Co. plate underneath its communications screen. Maybe I could learn more about them there. "I'm always willing to help a stranger in need."

"Well, I'm glad you did." I say, walking around the cemetery. I find several graves here, but only one it empty. Standing over it, I can see a spray of darkened earth nearby.

"Is this where it happened?" I ask. I know the answer, but I have to hear it from someone else.

"Yep, I was takin' a stroll up to the old bone orchard that night and saw some unsavory types. I laid low until they left, I was able to dig you out and carry you down for the doc to have a look at you."

I gingerly touch the still healing scar over my head. "Yeah. Good thing you did. I wouldn't have made it if you hadn't rescued me." I look around the area. Shell casings lay around the area. I stoop down and snatch one up. 9mm.

"Hey, Victor," I begin. "What kind of robot are you. I don't remember seeing any of your kind before."

He waves a three clawed hand. "I'm a Securitron," he responds matter of fact. "RobCo model 88b. If you see any of my brothers tell them Victor says howdy."

I smile. "I'll do that, Victor."

It rotates around on its wheel, taking in the surroundings. "You planning on rolling out there soon?" he asks.

I shrug. "Must have been unconscious for a few weeks. I should get moving. Got to find the guy who shot me."

"Ah, that guy looked all hat and no cattle, if you know what I mean." Victor jokes. "But you were only out of it for eight days, countin' today."

"Eight days?" I ask. "That's pretty remarkable for head trauma.

"I don't know much about that." The robot responds. "You should ask doc Mitchell if you want to know more."

I imitate tipping my hat to him, since I don't have one to tip. "Thanks again Victor."

"Think nothing of it." He responds.

As I turn to leave I see a glint of light coming from a corner of the cemetery. When I get close I can see it's a snow globe, tucked up against the side of a wooden cross.

It has the Vault-Boy in it, the funny little Vault-Tec mascot inside, and I can see part of Goodsprings in it. Who the hell would make a snow globe of the desert?

"Hey, this is a snow gobe." I say aloud, holding it up. "You see this here before?"

Victor seems to look at the snow globe an awfully long time before he responds. "No, I reckon I haven't seen one of those here before." He says. "You might want to hang onto it. I hear there's people around these parts that would pay big for a collectable like that."

"You don't say." I comment, sliding it into my pack. It didn't look particularly fragile, but I am going to have to find something to wrap it with just in case.

"Well, I'm going to talk with Sunny." I finish, walking away from the cemetery.

"Say howdy for me." Victor says.

As I walk down the hill, I think hard about what has happened. I feel strung out a little, but as I move about I'm feeling better. The water definitely helped. I think I figured out how the doc got me on my feet so quickly. A steady regimen of med-x during the surgeries and super stim pacs after would account for so quick a recovery. Still, I might be sitting on a whole rattler's nest of crazy brain damage just waiting to happen. But for now I seem to be intact. I can feel, move, I'm as coordinated as I think I've ever been. Any depreciation of my abilities is immeasurable, without someone else who could compare me to before.

And here I am, with a new lease on life, years of scientific and medical knowledge under my belt, and no idea how I got to that point. I can do things by rote, but even just actively trying to remember things starts prodding along a headache and makes me lose what tentative grasp of skill I had.

The only two buildings of note in Goodsprings, other than Dr. Mitchell's house and the ruined gas station, were the saloon and the general store. Coming out in front of them from the back, I walked the open space between the buildings. Work tables were carelessly shoved to the side, as well as crates sitting abroad without so much as a person's name on them.

Sunset Sarsaparilla. Well, don't mind if I do. I pry open the lid of one of the crates. It doesn't take much work, it had been opened several times before. Inside I find a couple of bottles. I pluck two of them out, put one in my pack, and open the other right there. The sound of the bottle cap releasing, and the pop-fizz of the drink seems strangely comforting.

Ah, sweet, warm carbonated goodness. Its flavor sluices down my throat, and though it isn't cold it's still the best thing I tasted in quite some time. Well, best thing I ever remember tasting. I chuck the whole bottle, and toss the empty into the crate with some of the other empty bottles. I pocket the bottlecap. Caps are local currency here. I've got to collect some cash since that bastard with his checkered coat took all of mine. Well, one cap down, nine hundred or so to go. It would have been easier out west. NCR cash is handy; it takes up less space and can have bigger value. Oh well.

I look at the general store and the saloon. I consider going into the general store, but immediately my stomach interrupts by growling quite fiercely. It seems I haven't eaten in a while. Saloon it is.

As I walk past a couple of old world motorcycles, I realize they look mostly intact. Maybe they can work. That would make traveling the Mohave a little easier, and safer. I put a note in my pip boy, and decide to look into it later. I look up from my arm, and see an old man sitting on a rocking chair in the saloon's long porch. His weathered and sun-beaten face takes me in as the breeze can barely shift the thick white beard on his face.

"Uh…" I begin… unsure what to say. "Hi."

"Howdy." The man says, but otherwise seems intent to stay in his chair… quietly.

I can't waste time talking it up with everyone. There's food to be had. I push through the doors into the saloon.

I immediately hear a burst of barking and see a large black dog advancing towards me. I almost stumble out of the saloon on my ass.

"Cheyenne! Stay!" A woman's voice calls, and the dog's growls cut off immediately. I finally wrench my eyes off the dog and see who kept it at bay. A woman. A rather good looking woman at that. Red hair bound up in a ponytail, clean face, and leather armor. Hardened leather pads on the shoulders and elbows. A rifle in her hands, bolt action. No idea beyond that. She's petit, but her body is fairly muscular. I'd guess she was Hispanic of some sort.

"Don't worry." She assures me, smiling the kind of smile you give someone you aren't sure is a friend. "She won't bite, unless I tell her to."

"I'll keep that in mind." I say, holding up my hands.

She takes note of my newly adorned pip-boy. "You must be that man doc Mitchell saved." She observes, slinging her rifle on her back. "I'm Sunny, Sunny Smiles."

Ah, this was the girl who was could help me get started again. "I'm Buck." I say, smiling. Doctor Mitchell says you could help me get started again."

"Sure I can." She says, looking me over. "We should probably start with the basics." She says.

I shrug. "Might as well, who knows what got blown out my head."

She gives a half-hearted chuckle. Okay. Well at least now I know I'm not terribly funny. My stomach growls again, and Cheyenne responds in kind before Sunny silences her with a faint touch.

I look down at my stomach and up at her. "Maybe I should… have something to eat first."

"Yeah." She says. She points to my left. Over there. Talk to Trudy, she should be able to get you something." She gave me a small smile. "I'll be over here by the jukebox. Come get me when you're ready."

I go around the partitioning wall. A classic saloon bar greets me, and this early in the afternoon only a single man sits at the bar. A woman in a pale flowery dress stands behind the bar. She perks up as she sees me walk up and pull myself onto a stool near the bend in the bar. She comes over to stand near me. It's almost funny, when I think of a bartender, I think of them perpetually cleaning glasses, which is what she does as she talks with me.

Trudy was an older lady in her forties. Her deep brown hair was swept back from her head, cut short but clean. Her clothes while ratted and worn, were well kept and clean.

"Look at you, all cleaned up." She commented. "You look like a younger doc Mitchell, 'cept with more hair."

I smile. She had already put me at ease. "I guess that's a compliment?" I ask good naturedly.

"Sure was." She says. "He was a looker in his time." She says with a wink. "And you're all dressed up like one of his vault buddies." She gestured with the washcloth. "You even have one of those pip-boys." She gives me another reassuring smile. "So, what can I do for you…" she trails off.

"Buck." I supply.

"What can I do for you, Buck?" she finishes.

"Eventually, answers." I start. "But for now, I just… I just need something to eat!" I exclaim, holding my stomach.

Her eyes widen in mock surprise. "Well, I have just the thing to fix that kind of hunger." She says conspiratorially. "You got anything to trade?" she asks, leaning in.

I open my pack, rummage around in it, and dump its results upon the wood. A meager twelve caps sit across the bar top. She looks it over, humming to herself. She reaches down, plucks up ten of them, and scoots the remaining two back to me.

"There," she says. "That'll get you a decent enough meal." She says.

The meal turned out to be more than I thought. A steak and a flat bottle of whiskey in a bottle with a long ago scraped off label. I dig in, and I feel like I'm in heaven. The food, while a little funny tasting, isn't bad at all. I grab the whiskey, but stop with the mouth of the bottle touching my lips. Perhaps now isn't the best time to drink. I've been bedridden for days. I screw the cap back on and bag it, instead pulling out the other bottle of Sarsaparilla. I pop the cap off with a twist I must have practiced dozens of times before. I set the cap on the bar, and take a swig of the drink. Still warm, but still fantastic to a tongue that has gone dry for so long. I set the bottle down and grab up my fork and knife again.

"So what's this made of?" I ask. "Brahmin? Bighorn?"

Trudy, who was fiddling with a radio that wasn't making so much more than static, looked up at me. "Oh no. That's gecko." She smiles. "The Brahmin costs a bit more than that."

"Gecko?" I ask. "… That's some big geckos."

"Oh yeah, they're pretty big, but they can get bigger." Trudy explains. "Sunny hunts them when they get too close to home. They're actually pretty good for a few things. Their hides make good leather."

I set the empty plate and flatware in front of me and finish off the bottle of sarsaparilla. I pick up the cap to add it to the other two I have left. Oh yeah, I have one in my pocket. I can feel it biting into my thigh. I pull it out but pause. It looks different than the other three. It looks the same, but the cap has a blue star over the Sunset Sarsaparilla Company logo. It shimmers, and seems to be light reflective.

"Huh." I mutter, tucking it back into my pocket. Might as well keep it separate; maybe it is worth more or something. I glance up and catch the other man looking at me. He pulls his red baseball cap further down and turns back to his scotch.

I stand, belching. Two bottles of bubbly syrupy goodness and a hearty steak seems to be enough to quell the hunger in my stomach for now. I should keep an eye out for more of those soda bottles. Not only are they delicious, they're money once I'm done.

Sunny is exactly where she said she would be. I pause for a moment as she seems to be deep involved in her song.

She sat in a chair, the sun's hazy light shedding through the dirty salon windows, particles of dust drifted lazily through the sunbeams. Her head rested on one hand, propped up on her elbow, while the other was idly scratching Cheyenne's head, who seemed pleased with the arrangement.

_Big Iron… Big Iron…_ The jukebox played, its speakers dim, but not nearly dead yet.

I waited for a moment, watching her. She seems a picture of peace and happiness. Just a girl and her dog and a favorite song in a friendly saloon at home. It seems remarkably calming, yet for some reason it makes my chest ache. I involuntarily touch my chest. But it's not a physical pain.

Did I have someplace to call home? Some…one? Now I've found another thing to both find out and find vengeance for. Both find what I had lost, and pay back that son of a bitch for taking those memories from me.

She notices me standing nearby, and smiles as she stands, the song fading into some kind of announcement.

"Hey, you ready to get started?" she asks. I nod. "Good. Meet me out back."

I follow her out through the back door. I had walked by it before, but didn't know it was unlocked. We go out back and she has me stand thirty feet back. She rummages through some crates and sets six empty soda bottles on the rail the fence along the back of the saloon.

Standing next to me, she looks at me. "Well, let's see if you can shoot." She looks me over. "You have a rifle?"

"Like yours?" I reply. "No."

She unlimbers her rifle and hands it to me. "Here, take this one. I'll get my spare. Cheyenne, stay."

While she's gone, I look at the rifle and the bullets she gave me. It's a bolt action 5.56 mm ammo. So it's not for vermin; more for larger threats like varmints. Makes sense, if those geckos are as big as Trudy said. I pull back the bolt, and eject the clip. The small box holds only five rounds. She had also handed me a dump pouch with another clip and twenty spare bullets. Ten rounds before I have to sit down and refill the clips.

Sunny is back quickly, and she sees me struggle to get the bolt back into place.

"Sorry, that one's actually my spare." She apologizes. "Still works though."

"Yeah, but you got grit in the bolt, and there's a lot of soot built up in the barrel." I respond.

She raises an eyebrow. "Well, you know enough about what's wrong with the gun; let's see if you can actually shoot it. Take a few shots at the bottles."

I heft the rifle and immediately I know this isn't going to turn out well. The first shot I make nearly hits the bottle to the right of where I aimed, hitting the wooden plank.

"Tsk." Sunny clicks her tongue. "Try aiming down the sights."

I do so, but a thought goes through my mind. "Should we be shooting at the saloon like this?" I ask. "I mean the bar's right on the other side of this wall."

Sunny grins at me. "Yeah. It's fine. After the first time someone used this place for target practice Trudy had a steel plate hung between the planks."

I do notice the wood wall behind the rail for two feet above and below the rail was extra thick. I take a breath and sight down the rifle. This time the bullet hits the bottle, sending glass fragments spinning through the air.

"Great!" she says. "Try crouching or dropping to a knee. You can make a more stable shot this way."

"I think I get it." I say. I think I know how bad my aim is, if I need to drop to a knee to hit what I'm shooting at, I probably would be better served by running. Preferably away.

Sunny shrugs. "Alright." I turn to her and hold out the rifle.

"Well," she begins, not moving to take the gun. "I know you need some work, and I was going to go out today and clear out some geckos over by the water source. If you want to come with, I can split some of the caps with you." She pushes the rifle back into my hands. "You can even keep the spare."

Well now. Some caps, a gun, and bullets to help with something she could do on her own? Sounds good to me. "I'm in." I say smiling.


	3. Chapter 3

We crouch down, and I pop out the clip for the rifle. I replace the two bullets I spent. Sunny had handed me two more loaded clips and quite a few more bullets on the way here. If I ran out of them fighting these geckos, either I really suck or those are some badass geckos. I load the freshly refilled clip back in and jockey the bolt back into position.

"Well, you're up. Show them what you've got." She whispers.

I slip around the rock face, I would say rather un-stealthily. Yet another thing I apparently wasn't a master of before. "I'll show them. I've got bullets." I mutter to myself.

The first well is more of a pump with a stone trough shoved up to it than a real well. Long grass grows green here, evidence of the purity of the water. The area around New Vegas is a bit of a rarity. While it is a mostly dry desert, and is essentially a horrible place to live on its better days, it isn't because of the bombs. While nukes were raining from the skies long ago, somehow Vegas had been spared. Talk about a lucky break for a city that revolves on it. Either way, it ended with the area being relatively radiation free.

I hear the first gecko. Some kind of strange ululating noise, it echoes off the mountainous rocks around us. I lift the rifle, and aim down towards the well. That's when I spot one for the first time. Just past my waist in height, it was a relatively huge lizard compared to the geckos I vaguely remember seeing out west. It looked squat, but its legs were powerful and it had a ridiculously large mouth.

I watched it drink up some of the water out of the trench. It looked almost cute, really. It wiped the excess water off its face with a clawed hand. Well, it could be cute, but it is also dangerous.

I sight the things head with the rifle, take a breath, and pull the trigger. The rifle lets out a _crack_ as the round leaps from the barrel. I watch the round clip the lizard's head. Dark blood splatters the stone wall behind it. It grabs at its head, but doesn't go down. I pull the trigger again, and nothing happens. I look down at the rifle. Ah, shit. I forgot it was bolt action. I work the action, ejecting a spent brass and chambering a second shot. I look up and try to acquire the target again. And that's when I notice it's already halfway between me and where it was.

Holy shit these things run fast on those almost comically whirling legs. I raise the rifle and draw a bead on it. The gecko, leaps into the air at me, its mouth wide. I pull the trigger a second time. This time the bullet disappears into its gullet, only to erupt out the back of its head in a very gory fashion. The dead gecko crashes into me, but lost much of the thing's momentum and only shakes my shoulder as it falls to the dirt below me.

I remember to chamber a new round, and I look up to see a second gecko back coming in on me. It too takes two bullets to take down. The last one also hits when it's practically nibbling on my leg.

I let out a breath I didn't even realize I was holding onto.

"Hey, not bad." Sunny compliments my near ineptitude. Well, maybe she really was trying to compliment me. "Well, two more to go. C'mon."

I stand up, racking back the bolt and ejecting the clip. Instead of trying to click replacement bullets in right now I swap out for a fresh clip.

We take on another cluster of them at the second well, but there's three this time. Again, I have to reload. This time Sunny and her dog Cheyenne do the brunt of the work. On our way to the third site I can hear the geckos, far before Sunny does it seems. Only when we both hear a woman scream do we both break into a run.

When we get there I see a woman in a dress and apron trying to fend off three of them with only a knife. I try to aim, but my hands can't hold the rifle still enough and I'm afraid I would hit her too. Shit. Sunny drops to a knee and takes aim, and Cheyenne charges in to tackle a gecko, keeping at least one distracted.

I can't use this damn thing. Especially not well enough to avoid hitting the woman. What do I do? I see one of the geckos narrowly miss her with its claws, and the second sinks its teeth into her leg. She screams again, a height that can only be reached when driven by terror and pain.

Before I know what I'm doing I've tossed the rifle to the ground, and yanked the laser pistol from my pack. As my hand squeezes the grip of the pistol a small half ring near the end of the box barrel lights up red. It projects a holographic red dot with four chevrons encircling it that quickly shifts into a crosshair. Fantastic, the sighting mechanism works on this model.

I bring the gun up in a blur, and as I take aim I hear the pip-boy beep. For a moment I feel the gun settle more squarely on the first gecko. I start pulling the trigger.

Red laser beams _crack-sizzle_ through the afternoon air. I fired two blasts. The first cuts the body out from under the gecko's head, leaving it still attached to a very terrified woman as she falls to the ground. The second shot hits the second one square in the chest, piercing clean through it and scorching the gravel on the other side. It spasms, flinging it back in its death throes.

I turn, reorient on the third. It's taking a step back, opening its mouth wide as it prepares to lunge at Cheyenne again; she is hunkered low and growling very angrily though she has numerous bite wounds. I raise the pistol again, and that little nudge from my pip-boy sends the last laser right into its head as the two fly at each other.

The last one seems to burn bright red and orange, and Cheyenne gets a mouthful of ash as she lunges through where there used to be a lizard.

Ah, the joys of lasers. Energy cascades are their own rewards, you know?

I holster the laser pistol at my hip, and look down at my pip-boy screen. What the hell is VATS?

"Holy moly…" The woman says. I meet her gaze. She doesn't even seem to feel Sunny help pry the dead geckos head off her leg. "Thanks, I wouldn't have made it out of here if you hadn't come along."

"How many times have I told you all to not come down here alone?" Sunny scolds her. Cheyenne limps over to Sunny, and if she feels as bad as she looks, I'm surprised she is walking at all. That's a tough dog.

"I know!" the woman said. "I'm sorry, it… looked clear." She tries to explain.

"Well, you need to go see the doc." Sunny says. The woman nods, but turns to me before she goes. "Here, I don't know how else to say thanks." She hands me three of the water bottles she had been filling before the attack.

As she hobbles back towards town, I see Sunny frowning as she looks over Cheyenne. The dog lets out a quiet, short whine, but stays standing near her master.

When Sunny looks up at me, her eyes are watering, but she looks determined. "Sorry, but it looks like I have to cut this short. Thanks for the help, but I got to tend to her wounds." She explains.

I hold out a hand to pacify her. "No I understand. How can I help?" I ask.

She examines her dog's bite marks. Well, I know how to make some healing powder that would help her mend, but I don't think she's in any shape to get back to town, and I don't want to leave her here. The smell of blood would bring other predators and-"

"I got it." I interrupt. "You stay here; just tell me what you need and where to get it."

She smiles weakly at me. "Thanks." She thinks a moment. "I'm going to need only two things, some broc flowers and xander root. They both grow around here."

"Okay." I confirm. Noting it down on the pip-boy. "Where?"

"The cemetery and the yard outside the old school should have enough. Though Chet might have some too." She details. "I'm going to stay here and wash out her wounds so they don't get infected, please hurry."

I turn and jog back towards Goodsprings. Now I'm getting tired. It hasn't been a very long time, but I've been out of commission for over a week and have had one meal in me since then. But exhausted or not, I'd feel bad if I left her dog to die when I could be of some help. It would feel like I let that little image of peace I saw back in the saloon die if I didn't help.

The schoolyard wasn't a problem. The root is more than big enough for me to notice. There were a few hand sized mantis in the yard, but nothing that a good old size eleven work boot couldn't fix. The 'bone orchard' is only difficult in that I had to rush up the hill to find the flower. As I plucked the flowers from the stalk I see down the east side of the cemetery hill. Down the hill around fifty yards or so away I think I can see the dark bluish black sheen of hard carapace shifting around in the late afternoon light.

I back away and set to jogging back to Sunny in a hurry. That looked bad. Was that a radscorpion? Oh god I hope not. If it was, it was huge. I try to block the idea of pony sized nuclear scorpions from my mind. Not going to work. Well, good job memory. You still work, sorta.

I'm still wishing I could select which parts of my memory had been wiped out by the bullet when I make it back to the third well. Cheyenne is lying on a sheet of cardboard Sunny must have dragged from somewhere near by. Sunny herself is using a bucket and water to clean out the wounds.

I also see there is now a campfire near the well. As I approach Sunny looks up at me. "You got it?" she asks.

"Yeah." I respond.

"Good. I set up a fire, just… use some rocks and grind the two together and let it dry near the flames. Just don't let it burn, okay?" she directs me. I follow her instructions. A few minutes later I have a faintly reddish crystalline powder. I scoop it into a scrap of cloth I find laying around and hold it out to her.

"This good enough." I ask for clarification.

She snatches the cloth from me and examines the powder, rubbing it between her fingers. "Yeah, this is good. You're getting the hang of this stuff." She replies.

It only takes a few seconds to see the powder sprinkled in the bites have taken effect. The wounds stop seeping and Cheyenne seems to perk up, scrambling to her feet and barking happily.

"Thanks." Sunny says, relief all over her face. "You're a good sort."

I shrug. "I felt like I owed it to you, you did help me out."

"Oh yeah." Her memory kicked back in, now her miniature crisis was avoided. "Here's your payment." She says, fishing a handful of bottle caps out of her pack and handing them to me. I count them as I plunk them into my bag. Fifty. Counting the ones I had before, that makes fifty three. Amazing. I feel so rich now; I might even buy a second gecko steak-speaking of…

"Can I borrow a knife or something?" I ask, collecting the two mostly intact geckos.

Sunny is quick to catch on. We skin the two intact ones, and cut out some meat to cook. We also collect from the other geckos on the way back. By the time we get back to the Prospector Saloon, Cheyenne seems right as rain, and I have several pounds of gecko meat to sell, alongside some hides. Sunny and I split them and she leaves me the odd lizard out.

I take the gecko meat to Trudy first; I don't want them to spoil while I'm looking over Chet's stock at the general store. As I walk up the door flies open and a man I've never seen before shoves his way past me. I see he had on black and blue. I caught a glimpse of 'NCR Correctional Facility' on the breast of his body armor. What was a NCR jail guard doing here?

I saunter up to the bar (I've always wanted to do that) and plunk the bundle of skins on the bar. Trudy walks up, and I can tell immediately she's flustered by something.

"Hey there." She says, looking down at the somewhat soggy mess. "Got something?" she asks.

"Yeah." I say, unrolling the hides to reveal the gecko flanks. "I was thinking of trading these in for a few caps, if you've got them."

"Sure. Let me get them for you." She says, walking over to the register. As she opens it the radio next to it lets out a particularly poignant burst of static. She slaps the top of the thing. "Damn radio!" She blurts, and has to take a moment to calm herself.

She comes back and counts out some caps. I add twelve more to my small pile of caps for the four steaks. When she comes back from putting them in the kitchen, I have to ask.

"Hey, Trudy… Something bothering you?" I ask tentatively. I'm a newcomer to this town, eight days old, and I don't know if she'd be willing to open up to me.

"No." she responds. "Just that man Joe Cobb giving us trouble again. And my radio's broken."

"I look around the bar. That man in the red baseball cap is gone now, but the old man I saw sitting outside before is sitting in a booth in the corner and a few of the other Goodsprings residents are chowing down. "I could take a look at your radio." I say.

"Really?" she asks. "Well, if you can fix it I have a few caps I can pay you for the repair work."

I nod. "Deal."

The radio looks alright on the outside, but after switching it off I'm able to quickly peel the back panel off the radio. A quick glance through the guts of the thing revels to me that the antenna had been internally knocked loose.

"So what's up with Joe Cobb?" I ask as I search for the disconnected jack.

It is simple enough to pop it back into place. The radio's signal picks up and clear music begins to flow out the speakers.

"Some guy from Crimson Caravan came by the other day, looking to hide. Then Joe came by demanding we hand him over. Been nothing but trouble ever since." She explains.

I push the back plate back into place. This time it was simple, but I'm going to need a set of tools if I'm going to perform any more complicated repairs.

"But why would NCRCF be causing so many problems for a caravaneer?" I ask.

She looks at me, confusion registering on her face. "What?" she asks.

"Uh…" I look back at her, similarly confused. "That guy? He was wearing NCRCF guard armor. I thought that meant he was with the NCR." I explain haltingly.

She shakes her head, trying to clear her head. "Oh, right. You don't know." She starts. "A while back the NCRCF got captured by its inmates. They go by the name 'Powder Gangers' now."

"Oh. So that was… a powder ganger?" I ask.

"Yeah. They would be no more than a nuisance if it weren't for all the dynamite they toss around." She comments. "I'm hoping that Ringo sneaks out soon and takes the Powder Gangers with him."

Ringo must be the Crimson Caravaneer. "Where is he now?" I ask. My memory tells me that Crimson Caravan is usually well funded, and had guards. If he's by himself then those Powder Gangers might be more dangerous than I would have initially given them credit for.

"Oh, he's holed up by the old gas station." She says.

"Ah. Well, I guess I can go talk to him in the morning." I say. I set the radio back next to the register and turn the dial to power it on. The Mojave radio station pours through the speakers clear as a bell. "Radio's done."

"Thanks." She says. "Well, I can give you some caps for that." She offers.

I take the money without complaint. "Say, you wouldn't know where I could, I don't know, find some tools, or even someplace I can sleep tonight?" I ask, walking back to the right side of the bar.

"Well, Sunny would know more about the tools, but I think you could talk to easy Pete over there," she said, flicking her finger over at the old bearded man in the corner eating. "His house has a few extra beds in it."

I nod my thanks, and walk over to the old man-err, Easy Pete.

"Hi." I start, tilting my head to him. "I heard you had a spare bed?"

Easy Pete looked up at me a while and nodded before taking another bite of InstaMash. "Yep." He said.

I wait a few moments before I realize he didn't have anymore to add. "Well, is it alright if I can sleep there tonight? I should get moving, but I am not one-hundred percent yet." I explain, feeling lame.

"Yep." He replies. I'm not sure if that was to my question or to the statement of me not being all there. I decide to take the first option.

"Great. Which house is it?" I ask.

He tilts his head towards the front door. "Just across from the saloon."

Okay. Not much of a talker. "Thanks." I say. He nods, not willing to put any more energy into the conversation. I take my leave. Time to go have a chat with the general store owner.

Chet seems a nice enough guy, he meets me with the same good natured 'Thought you were dead' style that most everyone else but doc Mitchell greeted me with. He's definitely hard to bargain with though. Well, the gecko hides net me eighteen caps. At least I'm making some progress with money. Then I see he has energy cells. There went all the caps I got for the hides, plus all from the radio. But now I have a fully powered battery in my laser pistol and a spare that's mostly charged.

The only thing I am concerned about now is being able to fix it up. I vaguely remember having worked with other, bigger weapons, but a fistful of lasers should do just fine until I can get closer to Vegas. While Chet is busy putting the hides in storage I fiddle with the pip-boy some more. The note I had with me when I was shot was for the Mojave Express. That's right. I remember working for them, vaguely. Packages delivered. Some products, some packages, some messages. Almost all the details are gone, but the bittersweet feeling I have trying to think of it makes me think that while it had been rough, the work was rewarding enough. At least enough for me to carry a lone poker chip from Primm to New Vegas.

Whatever it was, it must have been important. 500 caps. Enough money I could live well for a good amount of time. Or gamble for five minutes on the strip. With my luck, I'd end up losing it all on the first throw of the dice.

I thank Chet for the business, and head out. The Mojave sun's sinking into the horizon, and the sunset colors look faded and tired. My body aches, I'm grimy, and my muscles burn. I've been out of the loop too long. The sunset colors remind me of the bottled soda in crates nearby. Another one of those would be nice. I look around as I walk between the general store and the saloon, it doesn't look like anyone would complain.

My eyes have had plenty of rest in comparison though. As I pry the lid off one of the crates, I see a heat waver in the air around by the corner leading to back yard of the store. I frown as I pluck the bottle up. Most of the desert heat was still baked into the earth, and the fall air wasn't that bad enough to… Oh, right. The other option.

I pop the cap off the bottle as I walk towards the back, holding the bottle in my left and my right hand shoved in the pocket of my vault 22 jumpsuit. I take a swig as I walk past the corner, and sigh as I turn towards the sunset again.

I finish the bottle of Sarsaparilla and in an instant reverse my grip on the neck, swinging it like a club to my left. No I'm not crazy, 'cause the bottle shatters in the air against something. The waver stumbles back against the wall of the general store, and I lunge in slamming my elbow and forearm of my left arm into it, pinning it to the wall. My right yanks my laser pistol off my belt coming out my pocket, and I jam the square barrel of the thing right into Joe Cobb's face as his stealth boy deactivates.

He is caught off guard, and can't even see me over the laser focusing array in his face. He tries to push me off him but I have enough leverage, and a gun.

"Look here you." I growl at him. "I don't know who you are or what you think you're doing, but I take snooping on me very, very seriously."

The surprise fades into anger, but he doesn't move. "Get the fuck off me, man!" he struggles to exclaim. There's a faint trickle of blood down his temple from where the broken glass cut him, but he is no worse for wear. "I wasn't snooping on you!"

I feel, more than hear, his gun arm shift. I pull the laser pistol down and press it hard against his guard armor around his stomach.

"You know the funny thing about this kind of armor?" I ask grinning. "It's made for knives and bullets, but a laser can cut through it well enough." I realize I'm grinning at him with my head at an angle and one eye wider than the other. "You ever see what happens to a man when you shoot them in the gut with one of these lasers?"

His gun arm goes slack. "Okay okay! Fuck!" Joe swears. "Don't shoot!"

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I ask. Politely, kind of.

He scowls, and turns his head towards the gas station. "I heard you were going to go talk to Ringo, and I was going to shoot him while he was distracted by you." He confesses. "Look I don't give a shit about you, or any other of these fuckwads here in this ghost town. I just want him."

He looks me back in the eye. "You help me, and my boys back at the NCRCF will help you better than these fuckers did." He says. I don't shoot him, so he continues. "Yeah, I heard how you just about came back from the dead. Someone like you, you could get something done. We need that."

Ah. Now the criminal wants me to join his posse. He looks me over carefully. "Didn't know you came from a vault." He conceded. "Which one? 22?"

Heh. Well that's a new one. Then again, smart guy, vault suit, pip-boy, laser pistol. Why wouldn't someone think that? Well, maybe I could have some fun.

"Seventy-Seven." I reply, deadpan. "This suit's on loan." My memories of horror stories seem intact enough.

He seemed to pale. "Look man, I just want Ringo."

"You can't have him." I respond. I push off of him, and as I do grab the stealth boy strapped to his arm. "And you can't have this either." I say as I pull it off him, causing the strap to snap. Fortunately for me I seemed to know that it would break that way. "Where the hell did you find old world tech like that anyway?" I demand.

Joe, while angry as hell, still has a gun aimed at him and I just took away his toy. He glares at me, but edges away. "You don't know who you're messing with, you piece of shit." He boasts, on the edge of running or shooting.

I don't see much point in threats around here. People do what they have to in order to survive. Announcing your intent to kill someone is like sticking out your chin and saying 'Here, take the first shot.'

I raise the laser pistol and grip it with both hands, sighting on him down the small holographic crosshair. "What was that?" I ask. "I'm fucking surprised you managed to turn the damn stealth boy on."

He thrusts out his chest, but his feet are angled to bolt. "Had to figure it out eventually!" he exclaims.

"Look," I reason, even though I know in my heart this probably won't work. "You're pissed at Ringo right?"

"Yeah!" he shouts.

"Cause why?" I ask.

"He shot one of my men!" he exclaims.

"What were your men doing at the time?" I press.

He seems to lose some of his steam, but not all. "We robbed his caravan."

"Ah. So you're pissed at him that he defended himself." I say, driving his logic forward. "Effectively."

"Y-yeah!" he's practically shouting. I can hear other people coming out to look. Small towns, sheesh.

"So now you want him dead, because when you went to kill him, he killed one of your guys instead, because he wanted to live." I conclude.

"Yes." Cobb growls. "And you better turn him over or we're going to burn this whole fucking town to the ground!"

"Well sounds to me that you're just pissy that you wanted something and got stung instead." I reply, shrugging. "Get the hell out of here before I send your ashes back to the prison in a baggy."

He scrambles away, and after a few feet runs off. "I'll be back!" he shouts.

I sigh. Well, no reasoning with the man. Criminals. Of course the caravaneer might also be a pain in the ass too. Already I've managed to drag myself into trouble.

"I need to keep my nose in my own business." I mutter, holstering the pistol and shoving the stealth-boy in my pack.

"I'll say!" I hear Sunny say from the saloon's back door. "You might get shot in the head less often."

"That was actually me doing my own business." I reply.

"Oh." She says plainly.

"No, that's a good point." I say with a grin. "I should stay in other people's businesses, that way they can't find me in mine."

Her shoulders bob in a suppressed laugh. "I don't think that's how it works."

"Well, I already died once, what's the worse that could happen?"

She waves me over, and we stand leaning against the very same railing I had been shooting at bottles earlier.

"Listen, I heard most of what happened out here." Sunny began, her smile gone. "I knew Cobb and his boys were going to be a problem eventually. We should do something to be ready to take them on."

"Agreed." I state. "Ringo would probably want to be in on that."

"We'll need to talk to some of the other notables around town," Sunny says. "Get some of the other settlers to help."

"Also agreed." I figured it was going to come to this once I found out Cobb was a convict and then did the simple math. "Who should we talk to?" I ask.

"You should talk to the doc and Easy Pete." She says. "I'll have a talk with Trudy; I've known her a long time. She'll listen to me."

"Anyone else?" I ask. "What about Chet and Victor?"

"Well, Chet might have some armor for us to use." She comments. "And I didn't think of Victor. You talk to him, I'll see if I can get Chet to lend a hand."

"Sounds good. If you can see if you can get some of the other settlers to keep an eye on the road, let us know when they're coming." I say. Sunny nods.

"Let's get to it." She commands.

I go talk to the Doctor first. He's helpful enough, and when he hears of the Powder Ganger's love of dynamite, I end up walking out of his house with a handful of stim-pacs and a doctor's bag. Easy Pete took some convincing, but by the time it was really dark he had set off to dig up some dynamite for us to use. That would be a taste of their own medicine, wouldn't it?

My pip-boy tells me it's nearly ten in the evening when I finally meet with Ringo. He says his part of the story, but I've been able to put most of it together already. He's surprised as all hell we already are ready to protect the town, and by proxy, his ass.

Victor says he'll be ready. I hope so. That submachine gun would be handy to have.

Sunny tells me that Trudy is in, and so are some of the other people. Chet was being stingy, but was providing the people with some leather armor. I get a set, and Sunny turns in. Cobb would most likely be back in the morning, with help. Goody.

I fall asleep almost the same instant my head hits the flat and dingy bedding.


End file.
